


Bishop's Opening

by Megkips



Category: Fate/Apocrypha
Genre: Gen, Mage politics, Mages behaving badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megkips/pseuds/Megkips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord El-Melloi II assembles a team of seven magi to serve as masters in the Trifas Grail War.  Hearding cats is easier in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bishop's Opening

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was originally written in 2013. As of now (July 2017) it is extremely outdated in regards to the gender and appearance of the Clock Tower Masters, as well as finer details. As it stands, this fic will not be updated to reflect these changes.

The Clock Tower Special Collections and University Archives sit in the basement of the Mother Shipton Library, quiet and unassuming. Beneath it, in the sub-basements, sit documents that other universities would envy, including manuscripts Newton, Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, Queen Christina of Sweden, Angéle de la Barthe, amongst others. The same sub-basements hold a collection of items belonging to magi of the distant past, spell books long considered dangerous, and the records of the entire student body, as of 1349 onward.

The wealth of biographical information is the best place to start looking for a halfway decent team of magi to control six heroic spirits, which explains the presence of Waver Velvet, Lord El-Melloi II, recruiter of magi for the Holy Grail War. His heavy workboots scuff the marble steps that lead down to the special collections reading room, then scrape the carpet as he approaches the reference desk.

A head of curly, unruly blonde hair perks as he approaches, and greets him with a bright, “Hey, Professor.”

“Flat,” Waver says, reaching into the bag slung over his shoulders and producing an impressive stack of paper.. “I realize that the rules of the archive require a forty-eight hour notice in advance to grab items, but I need the biographical files of everyone on this list. Now. It’s an emergency.”

Flat Eskandros takes the list from Waver and thumbs through it. “Dude, I’m just working for student pay here, I can’t actually run down into the vaults and grab all of these for you.”

Waver sighs and leans on the high counter. “Can you get someone who can?”

“Probably,” Flat says, over-enunciating the vowels. It’s a tic that shows his mind’s gears are turning, and Waver nearly beams at the tell. “But what kind of emergency are you dealing with, exactly? I mean, these are some really random names and—“

“—The sort that I am technically not allowed to discuss.”

“Gotcha.” Flat grins just a little and hands Waver the list back. “Lemme grab one of the actual archivists and they’ll sort it out. Be right back.”

Before Waver can reply, Flat scurries off into what Waver can only assume is the archival staff’s office areas, leaving him alone in the reading room. With a sigh, he digs into his suit jacket’s inner pocket, revealing his iPhone. He scrolls through his emails aimlessly – grumbling at the listserv notices he has ignored, a few questions from lower-blooded student magi that he really does need to get back to, and a few departmental communications regarding next year’s budget, all mild in tone. Waver smiles a little at the thread of emails, grateful that Clock Tower’s alchemy department is made of lower generation magi and those comfortable using some technology. The need to not use paper and barge into each other’s offices at the worst possible times is a blessing he knows not to take for granted.

He flips from his email to his calendar, carefully looking at the schedule before him. Rocco had implied there was a week to get everything together for the Trifas War, with yesterday’s meeting counting as day one. Today would be consumed by research, leaving five days to talk six magi into near suicide for the glory of the Association - and Rocco had made it clear that he wanted six while declining to explain why. A trump card to be certain, and Waver has to grumble at the thought of assembling a perfectly compatible team, only for it to be ruined by whoever Belfaban was hiding. The sound summons Flat back to the reference desk, followed by a middle aged man wearing glasses and an alarmingly tartan shirt

“Okay, so, this is my boss, Isaac Hopper, and he said he can help more than I can,” Flat informs Waver brightly. “My work here is done.”

At Flat’s introduction, Isaac inclines his head ever-so-slightly and gives a small smile. “Flat tells me you need things pulled from the vaults?”

“Yeah,” Waver says, offering Isaac the list. “I know this is bypassing protocol, but—“

“—Yes, emergency, he said that as well,” Isaac finishes, taking the paper and skimming it. “These are an awful lot of names, your lordship. Getting all the files together will take some time.”

“How much?” Waver asks, face souring.

Isaac remains quiet for a moment, “Two hours, at the very least, due to sheer volume. Maybe three.”

It isn’t time that Waver has to spare, but he knows better than to demand too much of a staff that works on behalf of mini-tyrants on a daily basis. “I can wait that long. I’ll be back in two hours.”

“We’ll see you then,” Isaac says amicably, before turning to Flat. “I may as well show you down into the vaults then, this’ll go faster with two people.”

***

Two hours pass in blessed silence as Waver sits in in the main reading room of the library. He flicks through evocation and alchemy journals mindlessly - he’s read them all already - and considers what the next step is. Assuming, of course, that he can assemble an acceptable roster of magi suited to this war, there is the question of getting them to agree to participate. Waver knows, like every mage does, that to get two mages to work together is a herculean task six will be a miracle.

The timer on his phone dings, and he goes back to the archives with just a bit more concern than before. 

Upon entering the reading room, he sees Flat sitting not at the reference desk but at one of the great oak reading tables with a pile of folders, beaming proudly. Waver knows by the pile’s size that this isn’t all sixty folders, but it’s an acceptable start.

“How many are left to pull?” he asks, walking over to Flat and swiping the top folder off to skim the most recent journal publication from Lara Nurenbam, a former student and skilled practitioner of evocation. 

“Uhm,” Flat says, face screwing up in concentration. “About twenty? These are all the younger students on your list. Giving us graduation years helped. I’m gonna go help Isaac with the rest but I figured you’d be on time and wanna get started so--” He drags out the vowel again and trails off with a grin.

Waver takes a seat at the table and gives a respectful nod. “Thank you, this will do for now. Don’t let me keep you from finishing up.”

“Okay, I’ll just get everything else then!” 

Just like before, Flat runs off before Waver can so much as say a thank you or request some paper and a pencil so that he can start taking notes. He pauses, then considers the unattended reference desk. No one will miss a pad of legal paper and a pencil. Waver grabs the items, then returns to the table and gets to work.

The process, he decides, will be to make a profile of each potential participant and whittle the list down to twenty-four potential participants with six additional backups. So Waver picks up Lara’s folder again, opens it, and starts making up a profile template. _Name, age, contact info, specialization, key skils, personality, misc._ The template gets filled in as he reads through, and after five folders, Waver decides that it will serve its purpose for all of the other potential masters as well. After ten folders, filling everything in becomes automatic, and not even Flat running up and plopping more folders beside him disturbs the work.

Waver is up to folder number twenty two when Bram walks into the reading room and proceeds to flop down in the seat across from Waver, letting out a low whistle to catch his attention. 

“You do work fast, don’t you?” Bram grins, showing a little more teeth than strictly necessary for greeting a colleague.

“Have you started on the relics yet?” Waver responds coolly.

“Some research,” Bram says. “There are a few manuscripts and other items here that will do nicely for the matter. I need to ask Rocco about budgets for these things, actually.”

“Might be an idea,” Waver agrees. “I mean it, what have you been thinking about?”

“Filling in Caster will be easy - we’ve got enough faculty papers that our possibilities are endless. I was considering the Duke of Bedford.”

“Maybe,” Waver hums. “Any others?”

“Well, I feel like the Archer class may be a hard fill, so I’ve been focusing on that first. I’m not having an easy time of it the dubiously legal channels, and I’ve been flipping through the auction catalogs as well.”

“I’m so glad you have regular contacts in the black market,” Waver deadpans. “Find anything authentic?”

“Someone’s claimed to have something that belonged to Achilles,” Bram laughs. “I’m half tempted to buy it to see what really shows up.”

Waver rolls his eyes. “Just use a page of the Iliad; it may work better.”

“Not a bad thought,” Bram agrees. “There’s some Roman weaponry on the market, which would likely result in a fine Berserker. First century, BCE. I think that there’s some author manuscripts from the 16th century that would work too, and Christie’s appears to have a genuine Marlowe document.”

“I would doubt that claim.”

“Power of belief.”

“I know how magecraft works, thank you.”

“Which is why I’m also considering Vlad the Impaler. Since the group will have to head to Romania, it may be wise to use a local legend.”

“Assuming that they haven’t summoned him first,” Waver counters, and after he says it, something clicks. “ _Shit._ ”

Bram blinks. “What?”

Waver shakes his head. “Did you read through the report of that single surviving witness from the attack?”

“Of course,” Bram says, closing his eyes. “I was the one who had to talk to the poor bastard and find out what happened, remember? There was talk of spikes coming up from the ground at such speed that -- _son of a bitch_.”

“So Vlad’s right out,” Waver concludes with faux cheer. “Got any more ideas?”

Bram breathes out in response. “How’re you picking names?”

“We have six slots to fill, since Rocco’s being insistent on picking master number seven. I’ll give you a list of names, you can pick artefacts accordingly, and we’ll mix and match based on who’s content to actually work as a team on behalf of the Association.”

“Are we not contacting the founding families of the actual system?” Bram asks, idly flipping through one of the files Waver has cast aside. 

Waver shakes his head. “Rocco spoke to an Einzbern representative, who in so many words said that a broken system was of no use to anyone. I ended up calling the head of the Tohsaka family,Tokiomi - apparently his heir is taking the entrance exam come spring, so we’ll be dealing with the Tohsaka in London soon enough - who explained that the need to get all the appropriate lines of succession in place would simply take too long.”

Bram rolls his eyes. “Bullshit. Everyone else you’re recruiting has the same time crunch.”

“I know it’s bullshit,” Waver says. “But all three families have already been humiliated by having the artefact stolen from them. A second attempt to get it back, ending in failure? They’d all be ruined. Well, even more ruined, and irrevocably so.”

“And so here we are,” Bram groans. “Picking up their slack.”

Waver adds a tired, stressed laugh to accompany the groan. “Yep, compiling lists simultaneously and hoping everything and everyone will be fine in the end.” 

“Speaking of, we’re going to need to update each other on those lists as often as possible.”

“Then we both need to stay by a phone or some other magic receiver. Is that acceptable?”

“We have no other method available,” Bram says, finally putting the file down. “Looking at the contents of all this,” he gestures at the table’s spread of folders, “Aren’t you supposed to be recruiting from non-Clock Tower personnel?”

“These are student files,” Waver explains. “Alumni don’t count as faculty, and I am going to head home and search through other contact information later just to be certain. There’s about ten names I have back there that I want to check as well”

“I’ll run through my contacts as well and lob them at you if I find anyone I think may be particularly good.”

“Thank you. However, please don’t make this into a race to see who finishes first,” Waver drawls, watching as Bram stands.

“Your lordship, you’ve already started that.”

Bam heads towards the door without another word and only laughs as Waver calls after him, “Just stay near a damn phone, you ass!”

***

The Bull Inn isn’t exactly in walking distance for Waver, but he has little qualm with taking the car out to Sonning-on Thames and staying the night. It’s easier to be in another place, to work where there are no distracting video games or ongoing experiments. Photocopied resumes and CVs pile up around him, and when his phone rings at eleven thirty at night, Waver is almost certain that he can start to finalize the lists of potential masters.

But ring his mobile phone does, and he lets out a short laugh when the caller ID proudly displays the name _Bram I-Am-Made-Of-Hyphens._

“Yes?” Waver says into the receiver.

The connection cracks thanks to the thaumaturgical interference over the line, only for Bram to reply with, “Where are you? I hear background noise.”

“Pub.”

“Lush.”

“Not quite. Anyway, you called with purpose?”

“I did,” Bram coughs politely. “Seriously though, the pub?”

“Get to the point.”

“Additional masters. It occurred to me that the Pentel brothers have been doing some work up in Scotland. The Orkneys, I think or else working on Iona.”

“Probably related to Norse magecraft, especially at sea. Rumour says that they’ve been interested in the navigation-familiars,” Waver says, idly thumbing through the pile of CVs on his lap. “Wait, how do you even know that they’re there? The total recluses are--”

“My sister lives in Glasgow and they’re family friends. She had dinner with them last week before they went further north and passed word on to me.”

“I get the implication here,” Waver drawls. “Offer them the spots then, see if they’re interested. I’ll be shocked if they say yes though.”

***

Rain patters cheerfully on Waver’s umbrella while mud pools around his boots. The forecast had called for rain in Wales, but there had been no warning about the mud. He sighs, and his breath clouds in front of him only to be whisked away by the breeze.

“Goddamnit,” Waver says to the standing stone beside him. “Of all the days for Siôn to have chronic lateness.”

The standing stone, of course, says nothing, prompting Waver to groan and kick at the mud unhappily. Specks go flying, and no satisfaction comes from watching the stuff go. Tardiness from this former student was expected, but three hours in the rain was out of character, even for him.

A cheerful ping comes from inside of Waver’s coat pocket, alerting him to a text. Balancing the umbrella under his chin, Waver digs the phone out and stares at the screen. It cheerfully shows him the latest text from Siôn Owen.

 _Can’t make it due to rain, sorry to send you all the way out to Trellech. Not interested in the proposition based on what I’ve heard, too risky._ , it reads, causing Waver to swear profusely at the screen.

“You could’ve just called before I got off the train!” he adds, nearly crushing the phone in his hands. “And not made me waste an entire day here! I have a deadline!”

Nothing responds to Waver’s outcry aside from the steady fall of rain, and he stamps in the puddle again. This time, the mud splashes up the legs of his trousers and onto his coat, ensuring the need for drycleaning whenever he gets home.

***

Walking from the standing stones back to the train station had taken an hour, and Waver feels awful tracking mud onto the train car and getting it all over the seat. Almost. Anger still lingers, keeping the space around him in the quiet car completely devoid of people.

The aura, however, does not prevent his phone from ringing, and it is with an unhappy groan that Waver stands up to leave the quiet car before answering.

“Yes, Bram?” 

“How’d it go?”

“I waited in the rain for three hours at Trellech and got told never mind via text. You tell me.”

Bram either sighs or laughs - Waver can’t figure out which it is. “Sorry about that. How muddy is it there?”

“I’m going to have nightmares about my suit coming to strangle me for mistreatment,” is the flat response.

“Well,” Bram says in a sing-song, “If it makes you feel any better we’ve got the Pentels in the bag. We can start using it as a selling point to others.”

Waver considers the notion, then nods in agreement. “Yes, that’d be good. Brings a certain amount of legitimacy to the cause. I’m going to Prague tomorrow.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“There’s a friend I want to speak to and get names from. How’re relic acquisitions going?”

“Well enough,” Bram replies. “I’ve got that Roman relic already and am legally procuring that Marlowe thing. A thought occurred to me after I got off the phone with the Pentels though, about how we only need to get six masters rather than seven.”

Waver leans his head against the train car’s window, watching the Welsh countryside whizz by. “Oh?”

“We need to recruit five magi, not six.”

“Explain.”

The sigh on Bram’s end of the line worries Waver. There’s an undertone of fear in it that few magi let loose. “We need to contact the Church and get their involvement.”

“--Shit,” Waver hisses. “Are you certain?”

“The last war had an overseer in the form a priest named Risei Kotomine. He, along with the Tohsaka, helped us with damage control. Had he not, there would have been a need to send Enforcers into Fuyuki and take care of things,” Bram explains, voice low. “The Church knows how dangerous these wars are, and they won’t want a renegade organization of magi running around with the Grail. They need to know what’s going on and have an offer of partnership extended to them, even if they don’t participate in the war proper.”

“If they do participate, you’re proposing that we let an executor control a heroic spirit,” Waver says worriedly. “That puts the lives of our entire team in danger.”

“Do you want the Church to find out about this some other way? Because if that happens, everyone in Trifas is their enemy, and we know what happens then.”

Waver closes his eyes, flinching from an imagined slight. “Something Béziers-esque, I’m sure.”

“--I wasn’t going that deadly, but, yes, something akin to that,” Bram confirms. “The point remains: we need to talk to them.”

“Then we need someone with Church contacts to set up a meeting.”

A thoughtful hum buzzes on the other side of the phone. “Give me three hours. When do you leave for Prague?”

“Tomorrow. I’ve got four days left on this deadline.”

“Cancel your flight and rebook it out of Rome,” Bram says. “I’ll call you with the meeting time and location.”

“Do I want to know how you know people in the Church?” Waver asks in retaliation, but only the dial tone responds. He groans, then turns his attention back to the countryside. They’ve crossed the border into England now, and he’ll be home in a few more hours. Not that it won’t be a frenzied mess of packing when he gets there, but there is a comfort in feeling the low thrum of England’s thaumaturgy beneath Waver’s feet. He’ll need all the comfort he can get before heading in Rome.

***

The espresso machine in the cafe whirs happily, and Waver has never been more grateful for coffee in his life. Getting up at four in the morning to fly to Rome meant that Waver had stayed up all night, alternatively packing and panicking. The last time he had gone to Italy, there was a run in with an executor. Going into Rome? Near suicidal for any magus. The Church was always happy to show what it did to heretics in its home city.

Waver ignores the part of himself that is still whining about not doing this on the phone, or insisting Bram fly out instead. He silences it, knowing a request of this magnitude must be done in person, and that if he fails to at least inform the Church of what is to go down in Trifas, a greater risk occurs. His request for help must be done in person, in Rome, to one of the men that heads the Order of the Eighth Sacrament. That is all.

Cups clatter, bringing Waver back to reality, and the barista shoves Waver’s espresso across the bar top. He manages a half-decent utterance of, “Grazie,” and turns his attention to the milky brown crema on top of the drink. For a moment, Waver debates adding sugar, and then decides to go without.

The cup is halfway to Waver’s lips when a heavily accented voice says in English, “You’re early, your lordship.”

That’s definitely the voice Waver heard on the other end of the phone when setting the meeting up, so he doesn’t turn. “My flight got in early, vicar.”

“I see,” the priest says, walking up to the bar. “Un ristretto, per favore.”

The barista gives a nod of acknowledgement, and the priest finally joins Waver in leaning over the faded pink marble countertop. He isn’t quite what Waver expected. Where there should have been someone older, maybe in his fifties, with greying black hair, he’s younger than Waver, broad shouldered with short brown hair, and then Waver tuts at himself for expecting someone other than an executor to show up.

“So,” the priest says. “The seven hundred and twenty-sixth Holy Grail is back.”

Waver nods. “It is, although the rules have changed some.”

“But not enough to exclude an overseer,” the priest continues. “I commend the Association for having such remarkable foresight.”

“I’m as shocked as you are, vicar, but--”

“--For the time being, Father Antonio will do just fine.”

“--Right,” Waver corrects. “Actually, could we take this conversation outside to one of the cafe tables? I flew here rather than speak on the phone for a reason.”

Father Antonio’s espresso arrives at the same time as Waver makes the proposal, so the two men both head out with their tiny cups and seat themselves across from each other. No muscle in their body relaxes and they spend a few quiet moments sizing each other up. 

“I’d like to keep this as secret as possible,” Waver says finally. He imagines his espresso must be cold by now. “May I cast a spell to create white noise around us?”

Antonio’s lip curls in displeasure, but he nods assent. “If you think it necessary.”

Waver dumps some sugar from the container on the cafe table and traces his finger through the pile, channeling his prana into the path it creates. He mutters as he does so, and the lines in the sugar glow a cheerful green before fading entirely.

“There,” Waver breathes out. “To business then.”

“Please,” Antonio says, taking the small cup in one hand and gesturing openly with the other.

“I assume that you know how the Third Holy Grail War ended,” Waver begins. “You had an overseer there, yes?”

“Father Risei Kotomine,” Antonio confirms. It matches with Bram’s narrative. “He said that the grail was stolen, although he and the other magi present were unable to figure out how it was done.”

Waver watches the priest take a long sip of coffee. “As curious as I’d be for that explanation as well, the mechanisms don’t matter at the moment. What does matter is that the grail was transported to Romania and is now in the process of being activated. The Association sent some of its own people to interfere, but most of them were slaughtered.”

A smile dances at Antonio’s lips. Waver wonders if there’s a special place in Hell for those that sucker punch priests. Waver continues. “The one man who survived activated a backup system in the Grail - we don’t have the specifics - allowing seven more servants to be summoned. Based on previous experience, we thought it wise to offer the Church a chance to resume its duty as overseer of the conflict. More directly, if you think it best.”

Antonio gets what Waver is really asking, and his smile disappears. “You’re serious.”

“Thirteen magi,” Waver says solemnly. “And one of your people.”

“I can see why you refused to speak on the phone about this matter,” Antonio says after a long moment of silence. “Tell me what your opponents want and what the Association will do with the Grail, assuming they win.”

“Yggdmillenia? The entire clan is using this as a succession route to humiliate us. All things considered, they’re doing quite well so far. There is likely more to this as well - the clan head Darnic is a notorious politician - but we have no indication of what these other goals could be. As for the Association, the artefact has proven itself troublesome. We’d like to end these wars for good.”

“And as you’ve said, you’ve been humiliated.”

“Yes,” Waver nods. “I won’t deny it.”

“Is all of this the party line or the truth?”

“I’m not fool enough to lie to a priest who can summon Wolverine claws.”

Antonio laughs, _genuinely_ laughs before becoming serious again. “There’s always the chance your superiors are keeping information from you.”

“Doubtlessly,” Waver agrees. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we are making this offer, and at the very least, informing the Church of what will be happening in the near future. It is your decision to oversee or participate.”

There is no response from Antonio aside from a thoughtful hum, and Waver takes the silence as opportunity to finally sip his espresso. It’s cold, of course, but Waver downs it anyway. 

“When do you need an answer by?” Antonio asks eventually. 

“Three days. Will that be enough time?”

“It will have to be,” the priest says. “Is it permissible to call you with my decision?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll call.”

Waver knows a dismissal when he hears one, and he stands with all of his usual grace. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Antonio replies with a nod of his head. “Take the proverbial cone of silence off before you leave.”

Waver takes one hand and wipes the sugar off of the table in one swift motion. The barrier disappears, and he leaves without another word. He needs a taxi back to the airport, and he needs it now.

***

Modern Prague clashes with the Old Town more than any other place on Earth, Waver thinks. The green, yellow, purple, and pink pastels changing to concrete, steel, and glass are a contrast that Waver has never quite become accustomed to, or cared for. Still, as he waits for the elevator to take him up to the apartment of Professor Ida Dusek of the Prague Association, he considers the merit. Prague knows that it lives in two time periods better than many other cities he can name, and there is a power in respecting the heritage while moving forward.

A happy _ding_ alerts Waver that the lift has arrived, and he steps into it without giving the thought much mind.

“Floor fifteen,” he mutters to himself, pressing the according button. The lift moves fast enough, and once on the floor, he heads for flat 1523.

Before he can knock, a voice calls, “Door’s open!”

Waver steps in, unsurprised that Ida is standing there, waiting for him. “Am I late?” he asks, finishing just as a pair of arms wrap around him and draw him into an embrace.

“Not at all,” Ida says, hardly thrown by the fact Waver isn’t hugging back. “You look good.” Her arms withdraw from him, and she walks towards the sitting room.

“As do you. I take it the ceremony with Lydia last summer went well?”

Ida’s grey eyes sparkle. “Fantastic, actually! For all that we have no legal status and half of the mage community is going ‘but how are you going to pass on your crests?’ it was really nice. Shame you couldn’t come.”

“I felt awful canceling at the last minute,” Waver sighs, seating himself on one of the plush looking blue sofas that crowd Ida’s living room. “But I can’t help an attack from an executor.”

Ida sits opposite of him, settling into a matching armchair. “After something like that I can’t blame cold travel feet,” she says reassuringly. “We’ve got photos anyway, but I assume you want to talk business first.”

“Please.”

Ida props her feet up on her coffee table. “Go on.”

“How much do you know about the Yggdmillennia clusterfuck going on right now?”

“Sundry rumours,” Ida replies with a wave of her hands. “Using the actual Fuyuki grail rather than the imitators and making the Association look bad. Varying death counts for Association members after a run in with some famous dead person.”

Waver makes a little pained noise, and Ida shakes her head. “Some student at Clock Tower’s been leaking information,” she explains. “Don’t ask me who or how, although they probably have communication lines with the Prague Association. I overheard it walking into my lecture hall today.” Ida tries to laugh it off, but Waver’s frown prompts her to stop. Her tone dips into the realm of seriousness, and her eyebrow slowly rise. “Is this damage control?”

“No,” he replies, leaning forward in his seat. “This is something else. The Association is trying to beat Yggdmillennia at its own game.”

“You’re planning your own Grail War?”

“We’re fucking with theirs.”

Ida only nods her head to urge Waver forward. He continues. “Our single survivor in an attempt to stop Yggdmillennia was able to alter the Grail War system, essentially making two _teams_ of Masters and Servants. We’re--”

“--Recruiting,” Ida finishes flatly. “You do know the survival rate of these things, right?” 

Waver nods his head in confirmation. “Ida, if I thought you would be willing I would not have bothered with preamble.”

She sighs, leaning her head back and staring upwards at the ceiling. “What do you want then, Waver?”

“You’re one of Prague’s professors. Would any of your colleagues be willing?”

The soft pitter-patter of Ida’s fingers drumming on fabric respond, and her eyes close. Waver says nothing, and fiddles idly with a strand of hair.

“One or two,” she says eventually. “If you can wait a day, I can get you in touch.”

“I’m here until three o’clock tomorrow. You have my mobile number, right?”

Ida nods. “I do.” She looks Waver up and down for a moment, then adds, “Have you slept at all? You look like death warmed over.”

“I came off a flight from Italy,” he admits. “Got a cab from the airport to the hotel, checked in, then came right here.”

“No wonder,” Idea says with a half laugh. “Okay, we have our plan. Go and sleep like the dead for twelve hours, and I’ll have magically procured a master for you.”

“Out of context, that sounds awful.”

“It does,” Ida laughs. “Come on, I’ll even make sure you get on the right tram.”

***

Waver wakes up at ten in the morning the next day, a text from Ida waiting for him. In cheerful sans serif font, it reads: _Potential candidate found. Meet at Big Ben Bookshop at 11 AM. 636/5 Mala Stupartska – Prague 1, across from St James the Greater._

“Shit,” Waver mutters, looking at the clock. The careful consideration of washing his hair or taking advantage of the hotel breakfast weighs in his mind for all of a second, and he opts for appearances over fuel.

Getting from his hotel just on the outskirts of Old Town to the bookshop takes exactly half an hour, and there’s little breath left in Waver by the time he gets there. He prays, and there’s an irony in praying right across from a church that he’s well aware of, that whoever it is he’s meeting won’t notice him until he gets his breath back.

A soft voice with a thick Russian accent proves him wrong. “Lord El-Melloi II?”

Waver turns to his right, then blinks at the voice’s owner. It is hard to mistake the stocky, black haired figure of Rottweil Berzinsky - not when he’s been making research waves and delivering conference papers at lightening speed, in addition to his research on the Eastern European bestiary. 

“Professor Berzinsky,” Waver coughs. “My apologies, I was terrified of running late.”

“It is no problem,” Rottweil says reassuringly. “Ida did not say where you were staying, and indeed it was she that suggested this meeting spot.”

“Must’ve loved the irony of the book store’s name.”

Rottweil laughs slightly. “I think it is morso the church across the street. They have a mummified hand dangling over the entrance that once belonged to a thief who tried to steal something from the clergy here.” Waver coughs again, and Rottweil gives him a hearty slap on the back. “She explained your conversation to me, and what the present situation is. Or at least, all you cared to tell her.”

Waver cringes from the sudden contact, but it works well enough. “And you were willing to meet with me. I take it that means you’re interested.”

“I am, if you can answer some questions.”

“I will to the best of my ability.”

Rottweil turns towards the bookstore itself and proceeds to pick up one of the texts sitting on the outside shelfs. “What is the Association’s goal in doing this? How are teams being assembled, and who can we expect to work with in terms of other magi as well as servants? Who is ultimately in charge of this group of magi, and what will be offered as compensation for injuries or death?”

“The Association is unhappy at Yggdmillennia’s decisions, does not like being humiliated and cannot stand turncoat members. The teams are being assembled by myself with some suggestions from Rocco Belfaban, who is the man ultimately in charge of everything. We are assembling based on skill, and servants being picked to complement. The Pentel brothers are participating, and I’ll be talking to Professor Wom Senbellum back home when I’m done here. I believe Rocco’s got one or two ideas in mind as well. Regarding recompense, you’d need to talk to him. In many ways, I’m just the messenger.”

Rottweil gives a low, deep hum in acknowledgement, thumbing through the pages of the book he is holding. It is hard for Waver not to look at him nervously, attempting to analyze every single movement, hoping for an answer.

“I think, yes,” Rottweil says after what feels like forever. “Although I will likely call Rocco with further questions. Is that acceptable?”

Waver’s anxiety melts. “More than acceptable.”

“Then,” Rottweil says, as if the rest of the conversation has not happened at all, “I’m going to go inside and buy this book. Incidentally, your last paper on artifical intelligence was quite good. I’m thinking of applying the theories to some of my work.”

“I look forward to the results,” Waver replies, not bothering to hide the smile on his face. “Thank you, Professor.”

Rottweil responds with a low, “Mmmhmmm,” as he heads into the bookshop, leaving Waver to his own devices. 

“Lunch,” Waver says to no one in particular. There’s more than enough time for that before his flight back to England.

***

Waver stares at his lecture hall for a moment, feeling all eyes watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. He’s not jetlagged - not really, he only crossed one time zone and didn’t adjust his schedule at all - but the exhaustion from going back and forth to Wales, to Rome, to Prague, then back home to England over the course of five days has picked halfway through his Advanced Alchemical Theory lecture to set in.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the room full of thirty-odd students, one hand shakily running through his hair. Waver thinks he might actually be swaying, and hopes that he can find a chair before he falls over. “This is hardly a decent lecture, and I’m not going to make you lot suffer the remaining hour and a half of it. There’s a ninety percent change I’m going to fall asleep standing up if I keep talking. You’re dismissed until our next meeting.”

A few cheers respond, but other than that, the room leaves in dead silence. It’s just enough time for Waver to get over to the seat behind the lecture stand and collapse in the chair. No one seems to notice the action save for the one TA in the back of the room, and Waver offers her a lazy wave off that dismisses her as well.

She approaches him instead, frowning. “Professor, are you sure you should be alone in a room right now?”

Waver looks up at her, aware of how pathetic he must look right now. “It’s fine, Rosaline; I’ve just been stressed.”

“You and everyone else,” she counters, pausing to pull her brown hair out from under the strap of her messenger bag. “I know you’ve been busy to the point of canceling lectures, but all the rumours about there being a second Association forming has the whole Clock Tower nervous.”

The glare that Waver responds with has a familiar implication, and Rosaline sighs at it. “And that confirms _your_ involvement.”

“I canceled my last two lectures for that reason, yes,” he replies dryly. “And have gotten maybe twenty hours of sleep over the past five days for my troubles.”

A sigh responds. “Want me to come wake you up in an hour and a half then?”

“Please.”

Rosaline leaves without another word. Waver takes a moment to look around the room to ensure that no one else is there, then dares to put his feet up against the chalkboard before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

***

When Waver wakes up, he’s hardly rested. Instead, his legs ache from being stretched between the chair and the chalkboard, his hair is a mess, and Rosaline has admitted it took fifteen minutes to wake him up. Waver thanks her quietly for managing it at all, and heads out of the room to speak with the final master candidate.

Mercifully, Professor Findo Wom Senbellum’s office is one floor down from the lecture hall, and the stairs aren’t as steep as some of the others in Clock Tower. Being from the same ambiguous area of Europe as Rocco Belfaban’s accent, Waver’s never quite figured out where on the continent Wom Senbellum is from. Publishing biological guides on mythic beasts from South America, Eastern Europe, and Australia give no indication either, leaving most of Clock Tower to decide that the ambiguity is on purpose and not to ask more questions. Safeguards like that were in place for a reason.

Wom Senbellum’s office door is open when Waver approaches it, but he knocks anyway. A deep cough replies, followed by, “Come in, come in, I don’t have office hours so I can sit alone!”

“You’ll find I’m not a student, unfortunately,” Waver says, stepping in. He’s not surprised by the jars of preserved creatures floating in grey-green solution that line the bookshelves of the office, or even the skeletons that sit in various poses. A few stuffed creatures rest between the jars as well, most in ridiculous poses either meant to comfort or terrify those that enter in. 

Findo leans over his desk, chin coming to rest atop a stack of papers. “No, you aren’t, are you?” he laughs. “Been doing the run-around on behalf of the Association then, El-Melloi II?”

Waver nods. “And only hearing rumours about what’s happening via Prague. A student tried to catch me up but--”

“You’ve missed some choice hairbrained ideas flying about!” Findo laughs. “Such as that the Association is just letting Trifas storm all over them.” He leans back in his chair, humming thoughtfully. It’s just enough time for Waver to notice the grey in his thick, black beard and that he actually does have a fair amount of muscle. Probably consistent with hunting, Waver adds in the back of his mind.

“What else?”

“That yourself and Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri are going to summon all seven servants and fight on your own, which would actually be quite interesting. A few people seem to think that our new Association head is going to be a vampire, there’s quite a lot going on about how _exactly_ those Enforcers died and what caused it - some muttering about werewolves which would be ridiculous since those never settle in Romania - and a few people are concerned that we’ll be dealing with a rival Association soon and be courting our own destruction.” He leans forward again, blue eyes sparkling at Waver in delight. “What parts are true?”

“It’s hardly my place to reveal the truth,” Waver says. “The only thing that I can confirm is that Bram and I are working together to get servants summoned. That said, we’re only putting our reputations on the line, rather than our lives, and won’t be participating in the fighting proper.”

Findo smiles. “And who has agreed to fight instead of you two?”

“So far? The Pentels will be taking a research break. Rottweil Berzinsky is going to take a leave of absence from the Prague Association as well. We were hoping that--”

“--Berzinsky?” he repeats with a delighted squeak. “Oh, well, why didn’t you just name him first?”

“I wasn’t aware you were a fan of his work.”

Wom Senbellum chuckles. “You’re not in our circle of research, don’t worry about it. I’m perfectly game for this madness.”

Waver slumps forward in the seat, smiling. “You’ve been the first person to readily agree to this--”

“--You’re giving me the opportunity to study and control a spirit that otherwise no magi could summon and study,” Findo says. “Of course I’m going to agree. I’ve taken far stupider risks before.”

“I appreciate that your field has that level of constant danger,” Waver deadpans. “Rocco’s the one in charge. I’ll tell him that you’re in and he’ll speak to you regarding the finer points.”

A low, thoughtful rumble responds. “Will do. Should’ve known that he’d be in charge.”

“It is rather obvious, isn’t it?” Waver agrees, standing. “I’ll let you get to that then. I have a train to catch.”

“Do try not to fall over en route to it, El-Melloi II,” Findo says, watching Waver head out. Waver waits until he’s out of earshot to groan at the chiding.

***

Waver returns home at three o’clock in the afternoon, has the volumen hydragyrun make a cup of tea, and leaves a phone message for Rocco concerning Findo’s agreement to participate in the Grail War on behalf of the Association.

He wakes up at seven o’clock in the morning the next day with his phone cheerfully informing him that he has a message. With a sleepy sigh, he goes into his voicemail, cringing when Rocco’s voice comes through the speakers.

“That’s four masters, not five,” it says coolly. “And your deadline ends tonight at midnight. Get yourself to France to the Storm Treader’s, before you forget.”

In response, Waver whimpers.

***

Driving through Rhône-Alpes had left Waver swearing at a Citron too many times for him to be proud of, an already exhausted body begging for sleep, and a new hatred of the mountains. The constant need to change gears going up, down, and around the mountainside had been bad enough on main roads, and now that he has turned left five kilometers back onto dirt, he is trying to find the best way to lay a hex on the entire region.

The fact he nearly runs over a stag standing in the middle of the road confirms it. Kill the stag, hex the entire region, go back to England. Only the automatic reaction of Waver’s foot slamming on the break prevents the Citron from turning the stag into roadkill, and with the automatic reaction comes Waver’s forehead slamming into the steering wheel.

“Shit!” he manages to cough, feeling at his forehead. It’ll bruise, to be sure.

In response, the stag simply looks at the car and tilts its head. Waver opens the drivers door, then gives the animal a good look over before groaning, “Oh. You’re a familiar. Hang on, let me get the car keys.”

Waver is certain that the stag has the audacity to roll its eyes before heading down the road. He follows after it with a sort of resigned exhaustion that his situation is actually this ridiculous. It continues ahead of him, finally allowing Waver to register that the forest around them is unseasonably warm. For late November, there should be more snow, a blowing bitter wind, some sign of winter on the horizon. Everything is moderate though, and Waver frowns as leaves crunch under his feet.

“How long have we been in Ram’s work area?” he asks, half expecting the stag to reply _This whole time._

Instead, the stag stops, gesturing its head to a cabin just ahead. “Ah,” Waver says finally catching up to it. “Thank you.”

Again, the stag says nothing. It is a cue for Waver to go ahead without any assistance, and he does so, coming to stand at the door of the cabin. There’s genuinely nothing impressive about it - stone walls, with a few dusty looking windows and a smoking chimney. He knocks, and the door opens automatically. 

“If my life turns into a horror film, God help me,” he mutters, walking in through the door.

To Waver’s mild surprise, the house is neither a well-made film set where something is bound to pop out of the floorboards nor bigger on the inside, as magi occasionally craft. Instead, an opulent workspace greets Waver, with gilded frames around baroque paintings of magi performing great works, marble floor space, and elaborately carved tables covered in all manner of glassware, mixed with stray papers, observation notes, and dinner plates. 

Waver frowns at the display of grandiosity. He knows the glassware used is hardly up to standard, that such paintings can be damaged by chemical fumes, and that Jean Ram, 15th head of the Ram family, probably doesn’t care about any of this. Indeed, the brunette mage is still crouched over a bowl, mixing something, hardly aware that Waver has stepped in at all.

“Mr Ram?” Waver ventures, wandering through the maze of what is probably half a dozen tables in the cramped cabin space. “Mr _Ram_ ,” he repeats, when no response comes. Once Waver is on the opposite side of Jean’s table, he says again, “ _Mr Ram!_ ”

Something about the stag’s behaviour, Waver thinks, should have been a warning of what was to come. With a haggard sigh, he pretends that Jean is listening, rather than dressed in garish blue robes like a wizard out of a children’s picture book, ignoring him for an experiment.

“We exchanged phone messages, you assured me that I could speak to you about the matter of the Holy Grail War,” he begins evenly. “The Association needs--”

Finally, Jean looks up. There are a few ink smears on his face, but they look oddly at home there, highlighting his jaw structure and, well, making his eyebrows look a little silly. “There is no need to rehash what you told me on the phone,” he says. “I am simply agreeing to discuss the sensitive aspects of what is now an out of control rumour mill in person. Remind me who is in charge of the opposite faction, Mr Velvet.”

Waver bristles at being addressed by only his surname, but answers anyway. “Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia. He was responsi--”

“Oh, yes, Darnic,” Jean drawls. “I don’t know why anyone is surprised by his little stunt, or by his recruits.” He reaches over to pour something foul smelling into the beaker of water in front of him, smiling at his own reflection. “All below average magi, looking to prove themselves to the Association. I’m surprised you’re not standing with them, Velvet.”

“Thankfully for all, I’m already a lord, with a powerful family behind me,” Waver responds coldly, watching the steam rise from another one of Ram’s experiments in the corner. “You wouldn’t want me learning politics from that man anyway.”

“True,” Jean agrees. “You’re already enough of a politico to make up for your less than impressive heritage.”

Waver bites back the bitterest of comments. “You certainly live up to yours. Two of our team members are British - will they too be encountering comments better placed during the Hundred Years’ War?”

Jean responds, adding the vial he holds in his right hand into one of the beakers. Bright blue smoke clouds the room immediately, causing both men to cough into their sleeves.

“It depends who they are!” Jean declares cheerfully, batting at the smoke. Rather than dissipate, it melts off of him, making pale blue puddles on the workshop floor. “You’re speaking of the Pentel siblings, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well then I hardly think it’ll be a bother, since they’re technically Scottish and not English. The only detail I really need to know is what’s in it for me, if I take up the Association’s cause.”

“Assuming you survive, the Association may finally grant you the rank of Grand,” Waver offers dryly, eyes fixing on one of the puddles. Little clouds now float over them, water slowly but surely disappearing. “And whatever else you’d like, you’d want to talk to Rocco about it.”

Jean laughs, reaching for the inkwell on his workbench and grabbing the quill that rests in it. Waver eyes the thing with an eyebrow raise, and manages to not roll his eyes. “So, you’re just the messenger here,” he fills in, opening up a notebook. “And he’s the mastermind.”

“It’s a collaborative effort,” Waver corrects quickly, with just a bit too much heat in his voice.

Jean scribbles furiously in his notebook, hand only lifting to change line or get more ink onto the pen nib. “Then I’ll call Rocco after you leave and talk it over with him. It is a waste of time for both of us, since you’re passing messages along and I clearly have more questions than the other magi you’ve dragged into this war. Consider it a mercy.” With a flourish of his pen, he looks up at Waver and gives him a forced smile. “You may go. I’ll send the stag with you, if you don’t recall the route.”

Waver’s smile is equally forced. “I can manage, thank you.”

“Then I trust you can see yourself out.”

“Gladly.”

Waver takes care to slam the door when he leaves Ram’s cabin, smiling when he hears an annoyed yelp and shattering glass. He smiles all the way back to his car, planning the phone call to Professor Belfaban to explain that Jean Ram may-or-may-not be on board and that _he’ll_ have to do the final convincing, rather than Waver. The stag from before is nowhere in sight, not even as Waver approaches the car.

He has the Citron’s door open when his mobile rings merrily, displaying a number that is neither Bram’s nor Rocco’s. Waver frowns, but answers anyway. “Hullo?”

“Lord El-Melloi II?” Father Antonio’s voice asks on the other end.

“Vic- father,” Waver corrects quickly. “Yes, this is the right number. How can I help you?”

“You asked me to call when we’ve selected a representative and can get him to you,” the priest says. “Father Shirou Kotomine will be arriving in Heathrow tomorrow, around one o’clock in the afternoon. Can you meet him there?”

“If he takes the train from Heathrow into Paddington station, yes,” Waver says. “I have a lecture earlier that day and driving in London--”

“--Cannot be done by anything short of a miracle, yes,” Antonio finishes. “Very well, I’ll pass that information along to him. He’ll be quite obvious - look for a young man with white hair.”

Waver nods. “I will. Thank you for the phonecall. Please delete this number when you finish.”

“If you do the same. Goodbye, your lordship.”

A click sounds in Waver’s ear, and he sighs as he pulls the mobile away from his ear. There’s a plane in three hours to take him back to London, but from there it is too much of an effort to travel from the airport back home in the countryside, only to get up the next morning and head in for a nine A.M. lecture.

Waver groans with the realization that he’ll be sleeping in his office tonight, then again at realizing he’s slept in his bed for one day since getting this assignment. There are papers to grade, the deadline will have passed before having all six masters ready, and finals now loom. He won’t be sleeping until Christmas.

***

Waver scowls on the platform, watching the passengers disembark from the Heathrow train. There’s no sign of a young man with white hair wearing clerical garments, and the longer he waits, the more sour Waver’s mood becomes. There’s a bed calling his name, papers to grade, and experiments he hasn’t touched for a week.

A calm, crisp voice interrupts Waver’s internal grumbling. “I cannot say I’m surprised that they asked you of all people to meet me, Lord El-Melloi II,” it says. Waver turns right, and knows damn well that there’s no colour in his face.

He forces himself not to react further. A cold, “Is that so?” manages to escape Waver’s throat, although it is directed not to Shirou, but to the head of white hair that may naturally stand in the strange way that it does or may be full of product for some reason that Waver will never understand. 

“Quite,” the priest replies, smiling as Waver registers the lack of translation spells running. “First, you’re the one who came to Rome and asked for our assistance. Secondly, the file that we have on you confirms that you would be a natural choice for the Association to use as a diplomat in a situation like this. You’re noted for a cool head under pressure, and you’ve had the gall to contact the Vatican archives for documentation before. I dare say that for a mage, you have a positive relationship with the Church.” Shirou then turns away and begins walking down the platform, eyes fixed on the sign leading towards the street exit onto Praed Street. “So,” he hums cheerfully. “The Holy Grail.”

“Wrong way,” Waver calls, adding an eyeroll for good measure. “We’re taking the tube.”

“To the Tottenham Court Road station? Is that even on the Central Line?”

Waver grins viciously and heads towards the tube entrance, barely waiting for the priest to catch up. “What, you think we’re going to let anyone of the Eighth Sacrament near the Association headquarters?”

“Your location isn’t exactly a secret.”

“While that is true,” Waver continues, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat and fumbling around for his travelcard. “We still aren’t going to let you waltz in and see the interior.”

“And so I’m meeting whoever where, exactly?”

“Professor Belfaban, and at Blackfriars.”

“Station or bridge?”

“Bridge.”

Shirou nods his head and simply follows Waver’s lead - down the escalators, to one of the ticket vending booths, and then onto the platform for the Circle Line, bound towards Blackfriars.

***

It is easy to spot Rocco on the bridge when they get there - he’s leaning on the edge, looking at the riverbank expectantly. When Waver and Shirou approach, he straightens, and Waver turns to Shirou to give further instruction.

“I’m not invited to the conversation.”

If the smile that Shirou gives is amused or pitying, Waver can’t tell. Either way, he doesn’t like it, and he makes audible his relief when Shirou is out of earshot and on the bridge. There is nothing, Waver decides, more nerve wracking than taking an envoy of the Church for a walk through central London He finds a seat along the river, and lets himself collapse onto it.

The Thames reflects the afternoon sun back in Waver’s face, and the tourist population passes him by. No one notices him, or the mage and priest on the bridge, or anything else aside from the cityscape on the banks, the passing boats on the river, and the thread of thaumaturgy in the air that makes London, well, London. The city’s pulse beats on, and Waver equilibrates against its steadiness.

However long it takes for him to regain composure is enough time for Rocco’s conversation with Shirou to end, because the next thing Waver registers is the professor coming to sit beside him on the bench.

“What do you make of the priest?” he asks Waver, eyes resting on the opposite side of the river.

“I don’t trust him,” Waver says plainly.

“Nor do I,” Rocco says. “Of course, we’d be fools if we did and the Church even dumber if they didn’t use this situation to their advantage.”

“Where’d he go anyway?”

“To get food or rest, I suppose,” Rocco says. “We’ll be doing his summons tonight and then it’ll be off to Romania in the morning. Before you ask, I’m overseeing his evoca--”

“--I’d hope so,” Waver finishes with a tired laugh. “But how do we safeguard against whatever he or the Church is up to?”

“Did you leave one open spot for a master, like I asked?”’

“I did,” Waver confirms.

Rocco smiles smugly. “I think then I’ll be getting in touch with Kairi Sisigou about taking the job.”

It takes a few moments for Waver to register the name and why he knows it, but when he does, he frowns. “Is a bounty hunting necromancer really going to be our best bet?”

“If it isn’t, I am fairly sure those three words will act as a constant offense to the Church.” Rocco says cheerfully. “Perhaps to the point of getting them to make an error that we can capitalize on.”

“Perhaps.” Waver stretches his legs out for a moment, and his joints crack with age. He sounds like his father, he thinks, and then pushes the thought aside. “Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

“Yes, and I will,” is the response. “I think that your part in this venture is done, Lord El Melloi II.”

Waver shakes his head and offers a wry smile. “It’ll be done when we win. As it is, my reputation rides on the outcome of this war.” 

“As do Bram’s and my own.” With that, Rocco stands. “I’ll let you know when we have results.”

“Please see that you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Edit as of 28 December 2013: Based on leaked scans of Fate/apocrypha, I recognize that much of this fic is subject to being jossed by canon as of volume 3. I will likely not update this fic to reflect those changes, and permit it to stand as is.
> 
>  
> 
> [Bishop's Opening](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bishop%27s_Opening)
> 
>  
> 
> [Bull Inn](http://www.bullinnsonning.co.uk/gallery)
> 
> Many universities keep biographical files of faculty and students for historic purposes. Many of them are digital these days, but given magi, it is probably safe to assume that Clock Tower is still paper based.
> 
> The Waver and Tokiomi conversation was cut from this fic, but available [here](http://megkips.tumblr.com/post/52347574804/fate-apocrypha-fic-sidebar-for-bishops-opening)
> 
> [Béziers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massacre_at_B%C3%A9ziers)
> 
> [The hand at St James the Greater](http://prague-stay.com/lifestyle/review/1596-church-of-st-james-the-greater)
> 
> The Type Moon wiki can’t seem to decide on Jean Ram or Gene Rum. I went with the first for an excuse to send Waver to France. Likewise, it has given both Feend vor Sembren and Findo Wom Senbellum, and it was a matter of _which sounds slightly less ridiculous_.
> 
> As always thanks to Sara for the beta, and to Debs for the idea that Kotomine Shirou and Waver might have had a run in before.


End file.
